


Flood of Ills Comes Upon Mortals

by andrea_deer



Series: 200 Prompts Challenge [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Apocalypse, Depression, First Meetings, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Some Humor, Some Swearing, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may or may not be the end of the world. John may or may not be considered a barista. Sherlock is quite certainly mad.</p><p>Filled for thie prompt in 200 Prompts Meme (<a href="http://thenorthwing.livejournal.com/10960.html">LJ</a> | <a href="http://lordnochybaty.tumblr.com/post/101297508584/200-prompts-meme">Tumblr</a>): </p><p><b>124. "the (apocalypse of your choice) is happening right outside the window and I still have to work in this fucking coffee shop" AU</b> - Sherlock BBC Sherlock or John as a barista (or both lol).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flood of Ills Comes Upon Mortals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3a_berkeley (Brink182)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brink182/gifts).



> It is far less serious than tags or theme of an apocalypse might suggest. The tags about mental issues and depression are used, because the fic partially describes John as he was in the begining of _Study in Pink_. He is depressed and an adrenaline junkie, but it's not any more serious than it was in canon.

First of all, John was way too old to be working as a barista. And far too educated for it as well. Still, when he came back from war there was little he could do and while taking over the family business and running _Watson’s Café_ didn’t seem like the dream come true – it somehow was. Or at least, it was a blessed relief, a safe stop in trying to figure out what on Earth an invalided soldier, doctor with a tremor can do in London these days to keep himself alive. Sooner or later he will figure something out, he kept telling himself. He appreciated a moment of peace, he repeated whenever someone – usually his therapist – asked.

For now, he had a job, where he mostly just made sure everything went on smoothly as younger and more eager people did most of the actual work. He could sit whenever his leg became too much of a bother, he could avoid doing even his own tea for the whole day, if his hand was trembling too much. He even could rent a far nicer flat than his army pension allowed. It made a tremendous change, he thought. To stare lifelessly and hopelessly at the walls without the dump, but with an intriguing wallpaper pattern. It was all in all, quite an agreeable situation, if he could say so himself. Almost worth getting up in the morning.

Still, he was not a barista, strictly speaking. He _owned_ the place, or at least, his family did and at the moment he was the one representing them here. If nothing out of ordinary was happening, he barely even interacted with the clients. The London being flooded at an alarming rate however seemed like a highly extraordinary occurrence. 

He let Sammy go so the kid would still have a fighting chance at getting back home to his parents, before they drowned along with their small house in Surrey. If there still was Surrey. Kamal left an hour after arriving this morning, she was a nervous wreck and could barely do anything. Most of the news stations at the telly still kept on telling them it was nothing the government couldn’t handle and everyone will be safe if they only show some caution, but the cars were now just barely visible islands in the rivers of streets and that was far from reassuring. Ula didn’t even come over, John tried calling, but the lines were down again. He was pretty sure she just stayed with her kid, dumping the job at the café without much of a thought in a situation like this. He didn’t even blame her, he would just appreciate knowing for sure that she hadn’t drowned on her way here and the kid wasn’t starving on his own in some dump flat across London. 

Still, _Watson’s Café_ was located in apparently one of the highest spots in the city and on the third floor as well. Unusual place for a café, often the point of complaints for his parents, but now more useful than ever and John was staying in until the last customer left. That was his plan. He’d be the captain that goes down with his ship. It was not a ship and it was not required, but he was a captain and his only customer, sitting by one of the thin windows and scribbling madly in his notebook, seemed like he needed a place to stay. John felt like doing a good deed and not letting him drown. 

Well, he felt like that at eight in the morning, when the guy came, apparently getting a ride in someone’s kayak, now it was nearing six pm and quite frankly John would happily go as far as possible from his sinking ship of a café.

“Do you have somewhere else to stay?” he asked the stranger.

The man looked at him sharply.

“I thought it was _Watson’s Café_ policy to never close as long as someone is in and ordering drinks.”

That, unfortunately, was true. And John cursed quietly. It was something his dad came up with and stuck with no matter how inconvenient. Sometimes he even used it to his advantage, making it an excuse, when he didn’t want to go back home at the right time. When he had better company than his wife and kids. It was not like they would check, if he was at the café. (They did, all of them at one point or the other. They never mentioned it to each other or dad. That was not the way Watson’s family ever worked.)

With time they’ve all stopped advertising this company’s policy, even dad. They told new employees, but the sign that offered it has disappeared from the wall.

“You must’ve been coming here a lot,” noted John and the man smirked at him.

“I did my research. Although, there was little available information regarding the exact proportion between required ordering of beverages and the time spent here,” he looked at his half full cup of tea. “Still, the power is about to be shut down, I believe, so perhaps we should make the best of it. Do you have any food that could be heated?”

“We-“ started John, but fell silent as the room suddenly went completely dark leaving behind only unnatural silence.

Or perhaps it was only _too_ natural. It was not city-like at all. There was no background hum of electrics that went unnoticed until it was gone, no sounds from the old fridge in the backroom, no quiet murmurs of the computer. The cars were long gone too and there wasn’t even enough people around for the characteristic shout they gave every time the power went out. There was only water – rain, still falling strongly and rivers running down every street – and the wind, whistling past the building.

“My calculations must’ve been off.”

And one overly calm stranger John was now stuck with.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” 

“This is the best place to be. Well, obviously, the best freely accessible one, but I’m not going to get locked up in some government hideout with my tedious brother. You’re located high enough to be out of danger for a long while yet, the specific structure of this building allows it to upstand more than others in the city. Most importantly though, there is a tiny, probably forgotten staircase somewhere in the back, near the north wall. It should be hidden pretty well, you might not even know about it, but it leads to a sealed underground shelter. It was built with a chemical weapon in mind, the water will have a very hard time in getting there, it’s probably one of the safest places in London area. It quite possibly can last until the flood goes away.”

“Which would be?”

“According to my data and information I’ve managed to gain from the government channels – about three to five weeks.”

“And what makes you think, I will just happily let some crazy stranger lock themselves with me in an underground shelter? During a flood. _Underground_ ,” he repeated, quite sure it needed some extra emphasis considering how insane it sounded.

He could hear the smile in the man’s voice, when he replied.

“The fact that your hand has not trembled once today, Doctor Watson and you’ve been standing on your leg all day long and barely even noticed. According to those of more dramatic persuasion, it’s the end of the world and I’m offering you an option that sounds both mad and dangerous, and you absolutely love it.”

The man turned on the flashlight as he finished speaking, probably just for the dramatic effect. John cursed and blinked at the man before him slowly. This madman was absolutely brilliant.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson,” replied John shaking the offered hand, “as you apparently already figured out.”

He could simply ignore the man. Leave him here. Drag the inflatable boat he had and swim away towards one of the official rescue sites or maybe just his flat, half an hour away, probably still above the water, although barely. The dramatic ones might call it the end of the world and news might be overly calm, which all on its own was highly suspicious and worrying, but it was probably still something that could be survived. There were other, far less mad options than the plan suggested by Sherlock Holmes. 

“Come help me gather some supplies then, Mr. Holmes, you don’t seem to have much with you and I’d rather not starve to death before we can drown.”

The man grinned.

“Sherlock, please,” he said eagerly, standing up quickly. “We may need to detonate the way to the stairway, do you have any explosives?” 

John chuckled. He vaguely remembered being about six or seven and swearing that one day he will find out what was behind the walled entry in the back of the kitchen, even if it was going to kill him. (As his mother seemed to be convinced it will, considering how serious she was about not allowing him to poke around there.) Oh, well, no time like the presence. If it was indeed the end of days, he might as well enjoy it .


End file.
